


Aftermath

by Cake and Pi (Tarrin)



Series: Aftermath [5]
Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 19:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11259351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarrin/pseuds/Cake%20and%20Pi
Summary: The team deals with the wreckage left behind in the wake of suddenly losing Kaldur'ahm





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Written for yjficexchange's mini big bang event! Probably the only reason I got this first part written this year, instead of just sitting on everything for forever. A million thank you’s to lizziegoneastray for putting up with me talking about this nonstop and another million thank you’s to windywords123 for the [amazingly beautiful, heartbreaking artwork](https://windywords123.tumblr.com/post/162061654715/some-cellphone-photos-of-my-art-for-yjficexchange) they’ve crafted for this piece.

“I _told_ you that you should’ve waited.”

Orin grimaces at his wife’s tone and immediately regrets it as pain flares in his face. Readjusting his grip on the ice pack, he presses it gingerly to his eye once more as he watches his wife pace. Back and forth and back and forth, her feet slapping wetly on the tile. (There’s no need for a waterless room; it’s a frivolous luxury. They both breathe water as easily as air. They’re on the bottom of the ocean, with miles and miles of water above them, for Poseidon’s sake. But he has too much of the surface in him to not desire some reminder of it.)

“And then I’d be wrong for waiting.” He sighs. “I don’t blame her for being angry.”

“Good.” It’s only a single word, punctuated by the sharp report of her feet back and forth across the floor. It still leaves Orin with no doubt of how little sympathy Mera has for him right now. She’s always been better with words than him, be it giving grand, inspiring impromptu speeches, or cutting him - or whoever else has upset her - to the quick with such speed and precision that any swordsman would be envious.

He hopes her anger shifts away from him soon.

“This - this _thing_ the courts have resurrected - we’ll fight it.” Orin says grimly as his wife paces. “Kaldur’ahm didn’t deserve this.”

“No, he does not. Did not.”

“Mera -”

“The last time this _law_ ,” Mera snarls, teeth showing, “was used was with a _regicide_ attempt.”

“I know. I was present at the trial too, Mera. I know how they crafted their arguments. What they revived just so that they could maximize what they could inflict on him.”

Mera’s nostrils flare, but then she exhales slowly. Her pacing continues though it’s less full of directionless angry energy. The room is no longer full of echoes from her pacing as it becomes just something for Mera to do as she thinks.

“ _Can_ we fight this?” Orin blinks at her in surprise at the sudden question. Surely there’s no doubt that they must fight this, out of principle. Out of duty to his protege. Even assuming they’ve no chance of winning - and Orin’s not about to give up that easily - they must at least _try_.

“What do you mean?”

“Orin.” Mera sighs. “We’ve been slowly losing support in several key city-states over the past year. So far it hasn’t been too drastic a slip, or so we thought, but enough of one that our hands were tied where the trial was concerned. And this - that there even was a trial, even if it had had a different outcome - this is going to hurt us.”

“I would think Sha’lain’a and Calvin would want to support us.”

“We just lost their only son, Orin. Why would they?” She stops in her tracks, curling trembling arms around herself. “We don’t exactly have the best track record with children.” Her voice catches and breaks and Orin forgets the ice pack and developing black eye in favor of pulling her close. He tucks her head under his chin and rubs her back gently.

“Mera, love. That wasn’t your fault.”

“I know. But -”

“But nothing.” Orin exhales heavily. The guilt from the day they lost their son is still a knot in his chest; if he lets himself dwell on it too much, a raw, ugly rage uncurls from where he’s done his best to put it to rest. He knows it’s much the same with Mera. “We can blame ourselves all day for that, and it won’t bring him back.”

“I know.” She repeats. Only when he can feel the tension go in her shoulders does he relax his hold on her.

“We’ll need to tell the League about Kaldur.” He murmurs after a moment. He can feel Mera scowl into his chest. “They’ll need to know, love. They’d find out eventually, and it would just anger them if we kept these events secret from them.”

“Then they can be angry.” She pushes herself off of him and wipes at her face brusquely. “As bad as we messed up - don’t shake your head at me, you _know_ we did, bad enough that Kaldur didn’t turn to _either_ of us for help. But the League’s purpose - it’s founding idea - is about being there to help each other. About having each other’s backs. What happened _there_ that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, get help from _anyone_ in the League? Not one single person, Orin.”

Orin opens his mouth to argue and then shuts it. He hadn’t thought of it that way.

“We’ll still need to tell them.”

“Fine.” She picks up the ice pack and runs her hands over it, light sparking down her arms and hands and fingers as her magic turns it frozen once more instead of being half melted. Handing it to him, she says, “I’ll talk to them.”

“I should do it.”

“And earn yourself another black eye? I think not.” She folds her arms and frowns at him. “If it is so important, then it is better that we tell them soonest. And you have several state engagements that would be difficult to break without further damaging our ability to recover from this mess. So. I’ll tell them.”

\---

The League, as a general rule, doesn’t have meetings where every single member is present. Not only would it push the Watchtower’s occupancy limits, but it leaves villains free to do as they liked for too long.

That doesn’t mean that all of the founders never meet. But it is a little unusual for over half of them to actually be available for any given scheduled meeting, nevermind an impromptu one.

“What do you think this one’s about?” Diana asks Superman as he slides heavily into a seat.

“No idea. Pretty unusual for Aquaman to call an emergency meeting.” Which possibly explains why, for once, everyone has shown up. Except for J’onn, but he was on Mars. It doesn’t explain why Aquaman has yet to show.

Diana crosses her arms and leans back in her chair. She tunes out the sound of Flash chattering about some television show with Green Lantern. Further along the table, on the other side of Superman, she can see Batman carefully _not_ fidgeting with growing annoyance.

Fortunately she doesn’t need to resort to distracting Batman from his poor attempts at patience. The door to the meeting room sighs open, and Diana sits up in surprise as Mera, not Aquaman, steps through. The woman crosses the short distance to stand at the foot of the meeting table, hands clasped behind her. Diana recognizes the stance as one she’s seen Aquaman use when he’s on his dignity or being formal.

“Our apologies for Orin’s absence. A situation arose in Atlantis that required his presence, and while we understand that League status is not transferable, the reason this meeting was called could not be delayed. We hope you will forgive our appearing in his stead.” Mera’s voice is, well, it’s not _threatening_ but it’s not warm. If frozen air had a voice, it’d sound like Mera’s just now.

Diana can _feel_ the scowl Batman’s making, and it’s not even directed at her. He’s probably grinding his teeth too. “Go on.” He grates out after Mera doesn’t continue. Diana’s fingers itch, and she clenches them closed on her lap before she finds herself with a weapon in hand. Mera’s eyes are like ice, an expression the queen rarely wore, and Diana can feel her own face sliding into a calm non-expression in response.

“When we first met, we were not sure working together would be of any benefit. Our only goal was to see to the continued safety and prosperity of Atlantis. But that was at the cost of ignoring the rest of the world. Maintaining our isolation was no answer if Atlantis were to continue surviving, let alone thrive, as the world’s many problems still came to rest at our doorstep regardless.

“Cooperation has benefited both Atlantis and the League over our years of working together. We have made many valuable friends and allies, we have new technologies, we have expanded our knowledge of not just this world, but other worlds in our solar system and beyond. It is our dearest wish to continue our cooperative efforts.

“However, as everyone here is doubtlessly aware, the situation in Atlantis has been precarious for quite some time. Recent events have made it clear that Atlantis requires more dedicated attention than we previously realized. To that effect, we cannot continue our current activities with the League. This decision has been a long time coming, and not made lightly. We understand if the League wishes to take this as a resignation, though we hope the League does not find such action necessary.”

“So Aquaman’s too cowardly to resign in person.” Green Lantern grumbles. Diana frowns at him sternly, and he squirms a little under her glare.

“If a resignation is how the League wishes to interpret this, we will not argue it, especially in light of recent events.”

“ _What_ recent events?” Diana asks. “It’s not like you to talk around things like this.”

Mera’s shoulders square up at the question, and her eyes gaze out somewhere above Batman’s head. Her hands don’t tremble, in the light clasp she has them in behind her back, despite the people who she usually considers friends and allies frowning at her. Her hands don’t tremble because she’s still angry, at the courts, at the League. At herself and Orin. She doesn’t tremble because he didn’t tremble, not once.

“Kaldur’ahm of Shayeris, also once known as Aqualad, no longer swims in our waters.”

For a moment the words are just that - words. Sounds. Noise without meaning or substance. And then unbidden comes the memory of the day Aquaman had told them about the lost of his son. He had used much of the same words.

Diana cannot remember a time she’s seen the Flash be more still.

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t hear you. He _what_?” Superman’s standing, hands flat on the table. Diana reaches up and presses a hand lightly on his shoulder, silently urging him downward. He ignores her.

Mera’s eyes close briefly, and she inhales once. Twice. “Many of his actions during his undercover mission,” and her voice does not falter, remaining as icy as her gaze, “broke or heavily bent many of Atlantis’ laws. A trial was held to determine what judgment, if any, should be imposed as a result of his actions.”

“So you -”

Mera raises a hand to interrupt Green Lantern’s rising voice. “It is already done, Green Lantern. Forgive us if we decline to discuss the details; it is still a very fresh wound.”

Batman joins Diana on trying to push Superman back into his seat. She’s gripping him hard enough that she knows she’s leaving a bruise. The man ignores them both, planting both hands on the table and leaning forward, eyes sharp with outrage. “He put himself in a situation all of us would balk at, puts himself at great personal risk, infiltrates and takes out a group that the League has made no headway on for _years_ , saves us from a hostile alien invasion, and _this_ is how you repay him? What kind of mentor _does_ that to their protege?”

Mera merely raises her eyebrows at the question. “And what kind of League is it, that Kaldur’ahm could not turn to any one of your number? We do not argue that we failed him, and we have no wish to assign blame, but it is also true that we did not fail him alone.” Mera meets each of their eyes in turn. Diana returns her gaze, almost defiantly.

“We have no wish to fail others in our care, now or in the future.” Mera says after a pause, her voice softer than before. But then it hardens again as she continues. “And so our sole focus must be Atlantis. To that end, however, uninvited guests from the surface world will not be tolerated.”

“Was that a _threat_?” It’s the first thing the Flash has said since Mera walked in.

“If it need be. Now, if you will excuse us, we have other matters requiring our attention.” Mera inclines her head at the group, almost as if dismissing them, and then turns and strides out.

\---

Roy busily racks his brain for lullabies that kids like. Not that Lian is old enough to care. She cares that she’s hungry, that she’s cold, or that she’s not getting attention. He’s beginning to think she might care that he’s not Jade, which would be fair enough - he would complain too in Lian’s shoes. It’s not like he’s very good at this whole dad business.

Lian grumbles unhappily once more, and he shifts her a little in his arms and resumes pacing. He doesn’t _think_ she’s sick, at least he hopes not. But he’s fed her and everything and she won’t stop whining and just go to sleep. Or rather, she only stops whining if he doesn’t stop moving, which has led to him wearing out a path on his apartment floor.

He’s never felt quite so out of his depth before, and he ought to just call Ollie and Dinah and get advice on if this is a normal baby thing. They’d ask questions, though, and he doesn’t want to answer any. Or admit that he doesn’t really know what he’s doing.

He swears as someone knocks on the door. “Definitely not your mom because she wouldn’t bother with such niceties.” He grumbles to his daughter.

Yeah, Dick’s definitely not Jade.

There’s no time to decipher the strange look Dick’s giving him as Lian decides right then and there that Roy has had enough ‘not moving’ time and takes to protesting. He must have made some sort of face because Dick snorts and motions for Roy to hand over Lian. Roy considers refusing for half a second, but he’s been pacing for the better part of twenty minutes.

He’s almost offended that Lian immediately stops crying once Dicks holding her. He doesn’t even have to pace to buy her quiet. Asshole.

“Yours?”

Roy shrugs the question aside, grunting in a kind of acknowledgement as he gestures Dick inside. Closing the door, he says, “Her name’s Lian. I guess you’re her favorite uncle or whatever now, cause she’s refused to quiet down until just now.”

“I’m flattered.”

Roy frowns when Dick looks anywhere but him. It’s not like Dick to make house calls like this, not out of uniform. There’s not much Roy can think of that would bring him all the way out here after midnight, and none of it’s good. “Hey, you okay?”

“No.”

Well, shit. Roy sits down slowly on his beat-up couch. He’s no good at this sort of thing; all he can ever think of is useless platitudes. Still, Wally had been their friend, and Dick’s stayed friendly with him even after the whole mole thing. He’d be a bigger asshole than usual if he didn’t at least try to say something.

“Listen, I know Wally -”

“It’s not about Wally.” Dick sighs and finally looks up at him. Really looks at him, and Roy feels his guts knot up. This is going to be bad, he can feel it.

“Dick?”

Dick clears his throat. “It’s Kaldur. He- It’s-” Roy’s fingers bite into the couch. He knows that if he looks, his knuckles will be white. He forces himself to be silent, to not interrupt whatever Dick’s struggling to say. All sorts of scenarios play out through his head - that Kal’s injured is the first thought; maimed is the second. Then there’s the possibility of poison. Or -

He pulls himself away from those thoughts. “Kaldur what?” Roy prompts when Dick doesn’t add anything more. His stomach is in knots. He doesn’t want to know. But, he needs to know. He must know. He’ll just worry himself sick otherwise, at best. At worst, he’ll be where he was before Lian had come into his life.

Dick visibly gathers himself. “Atlantis put him on trial, for his actions during the undercover mission.”

“On trial.” Roy repeats as if he didn’t hear it the first time. His heart thuds, in his chest, in his throat. For all that talk about being trained to be stoic and unreadable, Dick’s bad at hiding truly bad news. If it was just a trial, if Dick was only worried about the outcome, he wouldn’t look like he’d seen a ghost.

Dick’s voice is a hushed whisper. “It was a guilty verdict. He - he won’t be coming back.”

“What do you mean, ‘won’t be coming back’?” He doesn’t like the look on Dick’s face. He really doesn’t. “Just fucking _tell_ me, I swear if you make me drag it out of you -”

“He’s dead.”

The words hang heavily in the air. It is weird how a only a couple of short syllables can make the world feel like it’s falling away. Can create a buzzing so loud that everything else is deafened and drowned out.

“That’s not funny.” It’s all he can think of to say. His voice sounds weird in his ears, all breathy whisper, as if he’s not breathing right. It doesn’t feel real. It can’t be real. And yet there’s Dick sitting at his table, holding his daughter.

“He never got to meet her.” He doesn’t remember deciding to speak. “I - I meant to. But something always came up.”

“He would have loved her, Roy.”

He knew that. He _knew_ that, so why hadn’t he dragged Kaldur out here to meet her?

He knew exactly why he hadn’t.

“Roy?” Dick’s concerned voice breaks him out of his thoughts.

“Sorry. I. I need to - ” The words catch and crack and he clears his throat, but Dick seems to understand. He’s already standing and handing Lian back, and somehow she’s asleep and missing all of this. Not that she’d remember, but it’s a small comfort to know she isn’t distressed too.

“I’ll text you the details for the memorial?” Dick asks softly. Roy nods. Hopefully Dick will take the hint and goes away soon. Roy’s not sure how much longer he can hold himself together.

Dick says some other things that Roy doesn’t really hear and leaves. Slowly, as if by staying quiet this will all some sort of nightmare or hallucination, he gets up and puts Lian in her bed. He watches her for a long time, until his eyes water and his nose runs with the need for sleep and rest. He can’t cry, not when he’s the one who kept finding excuses to not see him.

An awful noise tries to rise out of his throat anyway, and he covers his mouth to keep it from escaping. Sitting on his bed, he struggles to keep his breathing even. Struggles, and loses. His free hand curls into a fist, and he slams it into the bed, once, twice. It’s his own fault that the last time he even saw Kal - not even _talked_ to him but just _saw_ \- was over a month ago. He’s the one who chose to go after fleeing villains when there were others perfectly capable of catching them more easily. He could have stayed and actually caught up with Kaldur. Could have talked to him, could have introduced him to Lian, could have seen him melt with affection.

But no, he hadn’t wanted to hear Kal say ‘my friend’ that way, the one that always, somehow, managed to keep Roy at just the slightest bit of distance. The one that made Roy feel like there was some intangible glass wall that he could never break through and finally reach Kal.

He hadn’t wanted to deal with being the reason Kal kept that wall there.

And now he’ll never be able to fix what he’s done.

\---

For the second time that year, Raquel attends a memorial for one of her friends. And once more it’s not a funeral because once more there’s not even a body. She feels... she’s not sure how she feels, really. Numb, mostly. There’s disbelief, and denial, and an earnest yearning to walk it all back to before all this had happened. Back to when they’d been indestructibly confident and high on having beaten the entire League with a MacGyvered solution to mind control. But mostly she feels weary numbness.

She can see Artemis leaning heavily on Conner, looking as spent as Raquel feels. Can see M’gann and Zatanna place flowers against the newest hologram to grace the Watchtower. Can see Dick next to her, in a suit, yet another set of flowers in his hands. Why are there only flowers? (Obviously, she answers herself, because food would rot, and anything else would be too trite.)

She watches as Dick places his flowers against the base of the hologram. As M’gann arranges framed pictures next to it. It might as well be a month ago, for all that this time it’s for Kaldur and not Wally.

Gods, she hates this.

Roy was here earlier, staring at the larger than life replica of Kaldur. He’d stayed for a bit when the rest of the team had joined, but had left soon after, claiming responsibilities. Or supposedly had. She can just barely see him fidget behind a tree out of the corner of her eye. She doesn’t blame him for wanting to grieve alone. It’s already hard enough when there’s company.

At least, most company.

“Hey.” Dick falls in step with her when she goes to leave. “How’re you holding up?”

Raquel shrugs. “As well as can be expected, I guess.” She says automatically.

“Same here. Was planning to get super drunk so I can be as un-well as expected. You want to join me?”

The idea is actually pretty appealing compared to going home by herself and being not drunk. “Let me see if my mom will watch Amistad.”

“Sure.”

A phone call and a pit stop at a store later, Raquel accepts a glass from Dick. She hums in appreciation at the taste. “You always did make good drinks. If the whole vigilante thing and detective work don’t work out, you could do this for a living.”

Dick laughs. “I actually took couple of bartending classes once. Don’t get to show off often.”

“Well I can tell you paid attention. This tastes amazing.”

“Glad to know I haven’t lost my touch.”

There’s a subtle hint of a question there. Raquel muses over her answer - it’s been some time since she’s fooled around with anyone, and she’s always had fun with Dick in the past. But she’s also not really feeling the urge to jump him, as enjoyable as that would be, so she just smiles crookedly.

Dick smiles back and nods. That’s the nice thing about him. He picks up on cues quick as anything and never makes it some big production to get turned down. It’s relaxing. “Is cuddling out of the question? Or I can reacquaint myself with the couch.”

“Cuddling sounds good, actually.” She goes to take another sip of her drink. To her dismay, she’s somehow already finished it. She looks up at him with a pleading look.

“Easy there R, those puppy dog eyes are veritable weapons.” He drains his own glass before getting up to fix them both more.

She snorts. “Not half as dangerous as those drinks you make. Bring me some water too? I don’t want to feel _too_ much like death tomorrow.”

“Getting old over there? Sure you can keep up?”

“Now look here you little whippersnapper, I’ll have you know I walked uphill both ways in the snow for my hangovers when I was young.”

Despite Dick’s words about drinking so he could be upset, they don’t talk about earlier, not once. Raquel’s grateful; the numbness is slipping away and she actually feels kind of good; she’d rather not turn into the sobbing mess she’d doubtlessly be otherwise. She’s fairly certain Dick feels the same way, the way his face goes a bit strained whenever their conversation strays a touch too close to Kaldur or Wally.

“Here.” It’s later, and the room’s wobbling like _it’s_ the one that’s been drinking. “Lean on me. We’ll stagger to bed together.”

Dick accepts her offered hand from the floor where he didn’t mean to sit. Probably.

She doesn’t remember getting to bed, or getting in it. But at some point she wakes up half tangled in Dick’s limbs and bedsheets with a headache and a dire need to pee.

Extracting herself is a chore and a half - she’d forgotten about this part of sleeping with him. When she returns he’s still asleep, with that faint hint of a snore he insists he doesn’t have. It’s seems too much like work to crawl over him, and shoving him over would require more effort. So she flops down on top of him instead.

It works just as it used to. Dick snorts, grumbles something about too many rooms to deal with this, and scoots backwards. Raquel victoriously rolls herself into the freed space and luxuriates in the warmth spot he left. Her head pounds in a dull rhythm - she should’ve gotten painkillers while she was up. But Dick’s already curling up against her and her headache is not _that_ bad that she wants to leave this bit of comfort.

Sunlight streams in through a curtained window the next time she opens her eyes.

Stumbling into the kitchen area of Dick’s apartment, she finds water and painkillers set out. “Thanks,” she mutters, downing them both. Her stomach twinges, so instead of hunting down some breakfast she leans against the wall and nurses her water.

Dick is seated at his small table and seems just as worse for the wear, dark sunglasses already guarding his eyes. “Hey Raquel?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think I did the right thing?”

It’s too early for heavy questions. “Yes, the mustache was a mistake. Shaving it off was the right choice.” She can feel his eyes flick towards her; she stares right back at him. “Be more specific if you want an actual opinion.”

“I -” His voice cracks and he clears his throat. “The undercover mission.”

The numbness that had faded over the last night returns in full force.

“They volunteered. Kaldur’ahm and Artemis. It was meant to be secret, just between the three of us, but Artemis insisted on telling Wally. He didn’t like the plan - hated it actually - but he went along with it anyway. And now...” He trails off, as if not finishing the thought will somehow make the results less real.

“And now you lost two of our own.” Raquel finishes for him.

He flinches. “We all knew there were dangers. That things could go... badly. And the mission - we did complete it.”

“And that makes everything okay.” There’s more bite in her voice this time, but he doesn’t flinch again. His head remains bowed, staring down at the untouched bowl of dry cereal on the table before him. “If you’re looking for absolution, Dick, you’re looking in the wrong place because I don’t have it.”

“I - I don’t know.” He rubs his face. “I thought I was prepared. For failing, for things turning sideways. But then the mission was _over_ and done, and I relaxed. And. I shouldn’t have. I should guessed that something would have gone wrong with the MFDs. That something was up after weeks with no contact from Kaldur.”

“Weren’t we supposed to go through this shit when we had alcohol to excuse the emotions?”

Dick gives a choked laugh. “Yeah, sorry.”

She sighs. “I don’t know, Dick, that even Batman could have predicted any of this.” She raises her voice when he makes a noise of protest. Heaven forbid anyone suggest Batman could ever be surprised by anything. “But I do know you cut all of us out. You lied to us and deliberately led all of us into believing Kaldur had switched sides and had killed Artemis. So, yeah, maybe something would have turned out differently if you hadn’t kept secrets.”

“It was too dangerous to tell anyone.”

“Okay.” She shrugs, not really wanting to argue, not now. “Well then, guess you better make sure it was worth it.”

Dick gets Raquel a taxi a little while later. On coming back up to his apartment after seeing her off, returning to bed and sleeping away the rest of the day seems, well, less taxing than anything else. He’s already called in a vacation day at work - and thankfully still he has some saved up - and there’s not any pressing chores he _has_ to do right now. But Raquel’s words prick at him. Make sure it was worth it? There’s precious little he can do to change the decisions he’d made, or repair the team’s damaged trust in him.

But there is one thing he can try to fix. And maybe it’d help with his overwhelming sense of guilt.

It’s much harder than he ever expected.

Weeks pass and his coffee table is no longer a coffee table. It’s a war zone of forms and legal red tape and he is in over his head. Way over his head, and maybe he should have called a lawyer or two or five. Bruce has several on retainer; one of them surely would be willing to help. Half of the paperwork requires some other second set of paperwork, which in turn requires the first set. Frustrated, he lets the folder he’s holding slide out of his fingers onto the table with disastrous results.

Papers scatter across the table, sliding out of their neat stacks and some even falling to the floor. Dick groans and covers his face with both hands. “This is ridiculous,” he announces to the empty apartment. “It should _not_ be this hard to bring someone back from the dead.”

It had been Kaldur’s idea to go undercover and ferret out any useful bit of information possible. Actually, it had been his _plan_ , and he’d mostly let Dick know so that there would be least one person who would know what he was really up to. It had also been partly to have a second opinion on the whole thing.

They’d wound up bringing in Artemis, and she had helped them turn a ‘well maybe if we get lucky’ crapshoot of a plan into something that actually stood a real chance of working. But it had been Nightwing’s _brilliant_ idea to have Kaldur ‘kill’ Artemis to prove his boot-heel-turn to Black Manta.

And it had worked. It had worked so well that it actually did cost lives in the end.

He pinches his nose and forces himself to stop grinding his teeth. He knows by now that he could plan, and make backup plans, and make backup backup plans, for years and years, and it still wouldn’t be enough to cover every eventuality. Life’s not fair - he _knows_ this, knows it in his bones and heart and he knows that the universe doesn’t care who it takes or when it takes them. But he wishes it could have been him. Nevermind that he didn’t have superpowers and had no way to help at the north pole. Nevermind that he didn’t answer to Atlantis’s laws. Nevermind that he wasn’t anywhere _near_ Gotham when Jason -

He smashes his fist against his thigh. No. He’s been over this before. Ever since he was nine, he’s been over this. He knows he can’t take their places, no matter how much he wants to. Slowly, deliberately, he takes a deep breath. Another.

The least that he can do is fix the mess he’s made of Artemis’s life with her death. The paperwork involved is an ungodly hell, but it would hardly be any form of penance if it were easy.

\---

Artemis sets her bags down with a relieved sigh and stretches, popping her back. The door to her mom’s place squeaks shut just as she remembers, and it’s weird how much she missed hearing that. Maybe she’ll stay a few days more than she planned; her mom always likes when she stays over.

Breathing in deep, she can smell her mom’s cooking, and her stomach growls in anticipation. “Artemis, is that you?”

It’s not the voice she’s expecting. She jumps where she’s standing. _“Jade?”_

“Hey little sis.” Jade steps around the corner, her arms wrapped around a mess of blankets. “Sorry I can’t stay for long, but here -” Jade passes whatever she’s carrying over to Artemis, which is heavier than Artemis is expecting. And warmer. Looking down at the blankets she’s been handed, she rocks back on her heels to see a face.

Jade is smirking when Artemis finally looks up.

“Who’s the dad?” It’s the least important part of everything about this, but Artemis can’t help asking.

“It was too dark to see.”

“Too dark to -” Artemis begins to repeat, then glares at her sister. “Really, Jade? I’m supposed to believe _that_?”

Jade simply shrugs and grins at her younger sister. “I should be gone three days. Think you and mom can handle taking care of your niece - her name’s Lian, by the way - until I get back?”

“How hard could it be?”

“Oh, you have no idea. But mom can help you if you have any trouble.” Jade’s smirk fades a little, briefly becoming an actual smile. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

The door creaks open and slams closed before Artemis can fish her voice back out from her throat. Looking back down at the child in her arms, she tries to rally herself. She’s face down super villains and the the end of the world. How difficult could it be too look after a baby for a few days?

“Mom?”

“In here, sweetheart.”

Her mom’s checking something in the oven, and it’s weird. It’s so weird, because she’s seen this a thousand million times before, her mom preparing food or working through bills or folding laundry, so seeing her wheel about the kitchen, humming softly to herself, should be no reason to get emotional.

She does anyway, and the way her mom whirls to face her at the first sniffle makes it worse.

“Artemis,” and somehow that’s what sets the tears off in full force. She’s crying and her mom’s _there_ and somehow her mom manages to take Lian from her and still cradle her head in her lap. “I’ve got you.” Her mom whispers. “You’re home and you’re safe. I’ve got you.”

\---

His fingers tangle with Kaldur’s, gripping tighter than he normally would allow himself. He can’t let go, can’t afford to let Kaldur slip from his grasp. Bad things will happen if he can’t keep hold of him.

Their foreheads rest together, one more point of contact. Garth wants more, but that’s hard when there’s a table between them. Already it digs painfully hard into his stomach; a small price to gain even a millimeter of the closeness denied him.

He can feel Kaldur’s exhale brush against his face, and when he opens his eyes he finds Kaldur watching him.

“Garth.” It’s a whisper, a sigh, a shadow of the usual solidness of Kal’s voice. Garth squeezes Kal’s hands harder, determined to memorize everything about this. He doesn’t want to forget. He _won’t_ forget.

“I don’t want you.”

Kal slips his hands out of his with ease, despite the intensity of Garth’s grip. He leans back from him and melts away, disappearing into the darkness of the room. Garth bolts up from his chair, leaping over the table with a desperate grab, and catches nothing.

Garth wakes alone in his room with a start, the darkness of his dream slowly resolving into dim light. It takes more than a few minutes to gain control of his trembling body. “ _There_. He didn’t want me _there_.” He whispers, correcting the dream, as he tiredly rubs at his face. Maybe one of these times his mind will listen, not that it has so far. The dream is always the same.

It’s still early, but late enough that he’d not have any time to get more sleep if he returns to bed. Assuming his dreams would let him sleep. He’s interrupted in getting up by a sudden, demanding beep, and old habits make him snatch the communicator, unused and forgotten for months, from its spot on his bedside table. He hesitates before answering though - he’d rather not talk to anyone just now. It beeps again, and again, and before he can decide to smash it against a wall and never have to deal with a surfacer again, he answers.

“What is it?”

“... Why, I’m fine, thank you for asking.” Is the response. “I’d ask how you’re doing but obviously we’re skipping niceties today all over the place.” Garth closes his eyes so he won’t sigh heavily. Out of everyone from Kaldur’s team that could have called, it had to be Nightwing. 

“Woke me up.”

“Um. Yeah, guess it is pretty early where you are. Sorry about that. Anyway, this will be super quick, promise. Just need to know if you’ve been surface-side recently.”

“If I’ve what? Why?”

“Just curious.”

Garth spares a glare for the communicator, willing Nightwing to see it. “I’ve been to the surface a few times the past few weeks,” He doesn’t elaborate on why since Nightwing won’t share his reasons either. “You need to be more specific if you’re thinking about a particular event.”

“Thought Atlantis considered the surface off-limits now.”

“Atlantis is off-limits to the _surface_. And you are prying.”

“It’s what I do.”

“Good for you.” He tries not to grind his teeth in exasperation as Nightwing laughs.

“All right, all right. We’ve been investigating some of Black Manta’s business associates. But, well, one of the safe-houses he used has been rather... heavily damaged by water. Which is why I called.”

Garth’s response dies before it leaves his throat. _Shit._ What should he say? What _could_ he say? ‘Sorry for demolishing one of Black Manta’s bases, I was upset while trying to retrace Kaldur’s footsteps from when he was pretending to be evil and neither you nor he thought to warn me’? Not a chance.

“That was me. I _might_ have lost my temper.”

A rude sound comes across the communicator. “ _Might?_ Dude, over half the building’s gone.” Garth blinks. He doesn’t remember losing his temper that badly. Had he? “Listen, next time, could you maybe destroy the nearby countryside or something? Or at _least_ lose your temper in a place known for tsunamis or tidal waves. Hell of time dealing with the news coverage of it. Not to mention that we could have used whatever info was there, but now-” Garth imagines Nightwing shrugging.

“Yeah, got it.” He clicks the communicator off, forgoing any polite parting exchanges.

Looks like he has new plans for the day.

It takes more than a day. Almost a week, actually, passes before he finds the place Nightwing must have been referring to. By the time he arrives, it’s night, not to mention raining. Neither of which impede him much - it is a rare Atlantean that doesn’t see well in the dark - but the debris is a different matter. He picks his way carefully around the remains of shattered windows and pottery and other things he can’t identify, making his way to the building. What was left of it, anyway. One corner of it stands untouched; the rest is just... torn away. As if a giant hand had risen from the sea, slammed down on the house, and then swiped the remains down into the ocean.

From what he’d seen swimming up here, that was pretty accurate. He could see why Nightwing had thought this to be his handiwork.

He almost misses the object in the mud. Would have missed it if not for stepping right on it, thinking it just another bit of wood. It feels weird under his foot, though, and that’s enough reason to pick it up and wipe it clean of mud. He almost wishes he hadn’t.

The four inches of leather is intimately familiar.

The military would have reclaimed the actual blade when Kaldur had been ... sentenced. As Aqualad, Kaldur had been, very technically, still part of the military though not actively on duty, much like Tula had been - like Garth even now - in the service of the monarchs. So the three of them had been allowed to keep their standard-issue blades, as ‘insurance against enemy capture’. But unlike the knife itself, the sheath could be personalized as desired.

Most common was to have the names of loved ones close to the wielder, so that it could be returned in case of tragedy. He doesn’t need to look at it to know the names pressed into the leather of this one. His fingers pick out the names wrapped around it - ‘Tula’ and ‘Garth’, ‘Garth’ and ‘Tula’, over and over.

It’s like it just happened, the memory’s still so fresh. Kaldur stumbling over his words, worrying over what they’d think, if they would laugh at him, if they would find his feelings too intense. The confusion on Tula’s face slowly giving way to delight. The happiness in his own chest that Kal felt so strongly about them. The odd not-quite-shame, but definitely somewhere in that area, feeling that had come later when he realized that Kal had still felt so uncertain about belonging with them.

He remembers receiving Tula’s, minus the blade of course. Remembers being angry at Kaldur for not being there.

He’d never received Kal’s. He’d thought that that was because it was considered part of the trial evidence. He didn’t want to think about how it could have wound up here, mixed in with the remains of whatever had happened to Manta’s base.

He doesn’t want to think about the feelings rising in his chest, bubbling up and threatening to spill over. There’s nothing to be gained from searching beyond here. There’s nothing he’d find beyond frustration and grief and regret.

Even so, the urge to look, just for a little, just one sweep, just to make sure - it tugs at him. He ignores it.

“I -” His voice cracks and he clears his throat and tries again. “I miss you.”

It’s weird to say out loud after carrying it inside him for so long. It’s also hard to stop.

“This - I know you didn’t do this _to_ me, but how could you _do this_ to me?”

Neptune, this is all coming out wrong.

“I know I can’t see you again, I just. I. I never wanted this.” His hand clenches around the empty sheath. He drags the back of his other hand across his face. He’s not sure what’s rain and what’s tears. His chest burns despite the chill, and he battles to control his breathing. The most he can do is clamp down hard on the feeling of wanting to punch something. Pain flares in his knees, his legs; it rips through the pressure building in him, like some popped bubble. He doesn’t remember deciding to sit, but it’s easier than standing.

“I never got to ask you why. Why you left, why you didn’t run, why did you not tell me, why didn’t you take me with you.”

 _Why did you not trust me?_ He tries to say, but his voice catches and he swallows thickly. The words stick in his throat, because didn’t Kaldur trust him to understand? _‘Because of Tula’_ , he’d said. Three words, short and concise and complete and utter bullshit. And he’d trusted Garth to know him well enough to get the message.

“Why did you come back with me? Did you think I wanted this? Did you really think I wouldn’t have helped you run?” There’s no response - not that he was really expecting any, except sick, perverse hope never dies easy no matter how thoroughly he buries it.

There’s too many questions to give voice to, all of them piling up since that morning he’d woken up with Kaldur gone right after Tula’s death. He’s not stopped coming up with new ones, though he had thought himself numb to them by now. He was wrong, it seems, as his insides curl anew at the answer he doesn’t want to think about. The answer he doesn’t want to accept.

“Did you really think I valued Atlantis over you?”

\---

Artemis leans against the doorframe, trying to think if she’s forgotten to pack anything. Hair bands, toothpaste, toothbrush, her favorite earrings, nail polish, any clothes that she’s not giving away, books ... She’s pretty sure she hasn’t missed anything. And if she did, her mom would send it to her, or she can come back to get it.

She’s been at home for several weeks now, and she’s loved it and hated it and she’s ready to go back to college, to finish and move on now that Nightwing’s finally sorted out the paperwork of ‘not actually dead, sorry about that’.

Still, she can’t quite seem to get herself moving.

When she had come home, with a duffel bag of her things and her bow and arrows, she hadn’t planned to stay long-term. It was just going to be a few days with her mom before she moved on. There were so many memories of Wally here, after all. She’d been scared they’d rip her heart wide open anew when she had just started to heal.

But she hadn’t counted on having a niece. She hadn’t counted on Jade actually being _around_ for once, actually cutting short her jaunts around the world. She hadn’t counted on the smells and sounds of home leaving her defenseless and crying within moments of closing the door behind her. It was like she was five again, like she was some kid who’d scraped their knee and needed a kiss to make it better. Artemis hadn’t meant to stay, but she’d missed her mom, had missed her mom’s cooking and how _safe_ her mom always made her feel. She’d missed not having to avoid people in order to be alone like she’d had to do at the Watchtower.

She’d been right too; it had hurt to be here. She’d also been wrong; for all the crying she’d done, it had been, mostly, a good sort of hurt. At the Watchtower, with the League and the team, all there had been were missions and talking - or most definitely _not_ talking - about Wally. She hadn’t had room to do anything like laugh because she’d remembered a pun he’d made and it had been so awful she’d just had to shove him of the pier into the harbor. And then he’d surfaced and made another pun with a broad grin on his face that was just begging for her to dunk him under again.

At home, though, at home there was room; she’d almost entirely forgotten that she had happy memories of him here. Afternoons spent partly studying, mostly flirting with Wally; cuddling together as they watched movies on her old second-hand tv; patrolling together, sometimes just the two of them, sometimes with Ollie or Batman and Robin, before Robin had ’graduated’ to Nightwing. Wally earnestly learning how to make her favorite foods from her mom but never quite getting it right. Taking him out to her favorite Vietnamese restaurant one night after he’d gotten a rejection letter from a university he’d really wanted to get into and then dumping almost an entire bottle of sriracha into his food so he could blame any tears on the food. (And then having to help him eat it because that was also the night that she discovered Wally didn’t do well - at all - with any sort of hot spices.) The two of them quietly planning their future together.

And now she’s planning her future alone, and her chest aches and her eyes blur, and she’s crying, again. Maybe her mom’s right, maybe she is going back to college too soon, because she still has days that getting out of bed takes all of her strength. Because she still shuts down sometimes because of seeing some lanky, freckled redhead on the street. So maybe this might all end horribly and she’ll get kicked out, but still, she feels like she can, maybe, do this. And Artemis knows Wally would be behind her all the way, encouraging her to go and get the things she wants, to enjoy it all and to look forward.

Artemis closes her eyes and wipes the tears away.

She can do this. She can.

And it’s easier than she thought and harder than she’d imagined. School and classwork and studying slot neatly into place with little effort. The hard part is not from forgetting Wally’s not here anymore and trying to ask him something - about dinner, about going for a run, about what the hell the professor was thinking with that assignment. Those moments hurt, but she’s also expecting them, in a way, so it’s not anything she can’t handle for the most part.

No, the hard part is how _easily_ she adjusts her routine to his absence.

Which is a ridiculous thing to be upset over - he’s gone and he’s not coming back and she’ll have to move on sometime, and yet. And yet she doesn’t want to erase him, and somehow it feels like she _is_ whenever she realizes it’s been a week since she last tried to ask what he wants for dinner.

It’s in fits and starts, but somehow she makes it through one semester. And another. And then all of a sudden it’s been a year. And she thought she was doing okay - actually, she had been doing pretty great - but now it’s been a year and she’s not okay, she’s not better, and she can’t _do this_.

She can’t continue to act like nothing’s wrong, like she’s not missing part of herself. She can’t go to his memorial and be all sad soft smiles. She just _can’t_. Each time she decides she’s going, her chest gets too tight like she can’t breath. She wants to yell and cry and scream all at once and there’s never enough air.

She wants him back. She wants to be _over_ him already so she can stop hurting from the smallest things. She wants to have never have met him if it was only going to end up like this. She wants to have never have wanted such a thing.

She wants to hear him call her beautiful again, wants to see him smile when she calls him Baywatch. She wants and wants and _wants_ and she can’t have any of it, not one single bit, so she doesn’t go.

She tells herself he’d understand why she doesn’t go.

She still hates herself for it.

\---

For most people, a bag of groceries wouldn’t be cause for alarm. But Roy’s not most people, and this is his safehouse. One that he hasn’t been to in far too long as evidenced by the fine layers of dust over everything. But lack of use or no, this is _his_ place, and someone’s been here uninvited.

Roy eases the door shut slowly, holding on so that it latches as silently as he can manage. He came here to rest, but there’s little chance of that now if this place has been compromised. But a careful search of the place turns up nothing. His back itches, as if he’s being watched, and it only gets stronger as he looks for further sign of intrusion and finds none. Finally there’s only the table left, with its shopping bag.

He’s been holding his bow at half-ready, arrow nocked but not fully drawn in case he found the intruder. Now he relaxes it and sets it down, near enough to grab in an instant if he needs. Reaching for the bag, he frowns as he pulls out cans of soup and protein bar boxes and a canister of salt. Salt? Kal would always add salt to his drinks, even as he’d complain about it not being the same. He stares at it without really seeing it, then whirls around to the couch, where a light blanket lies folded neatly on the armrest.

Oh. Oh, _fuck_.

Kaldur had been here. He’d _been_ here, Roy’s certain of it. Normally he’d leave a note whenever he’d left without meeting up with Roy, but a frantic search through the groceries turns up nothing. Not even a receipt to give him an idea of how long ago he’d been here. Though it was long enough that Kal had apparently felt the need to replace his stores of food. And long enough for as much dust to gather on the groceries and the blanket as everything else in the room.

Head buzzing, Roy pulls out a chair and sits down, hard, and drops his head in his hands. He knows better than to let himself entertain the thought, but it’s hard to suppress the sick, dizzying hope that somehow this is a sign that Dick and everyone is wrong, that he’s still alive and out there somewhere. But if he was, he’d have returned to them by now, not left the team and Roy grieving and hurting for months.

No, Kal didn’t ghost on people, not like this. Only Roy was fool enough to do that and then expect things to still be normal when he finally returned.

“Fuck.” He whispers, rubbing his eyes. He’s exhausted - he’s been out all day and almost all night now. It’s too much work to fight the tears spilling over. He looks at the couch for all of two seconds before deciding against curling up there. Every time Roy discovered Kal holed up in one of his safehouses - wounded or too tired to make it home or wanting to be certain Roy was alive - every single damn time Kal would use the couch and not the bed. Even when Roy wasn’t even there to make it awkward. They had argued over it, time and again, but Kal had stubbornly refused to see reason.

The blanket is evidence that he still hadn’t changed.

It’ll smell like him, Roy’s certain. That’s reason enough to avoid it.

“The fuck, dude? Why didn’t you come find me? Why’d you hide out here?”

As if there’d be an answer, as if asking _now_ would make any difference, as if knowing would help at all.

He can guess the why of _here_ in particular - this used to be one of Roy’s main haunts. If Kal had needed him but hadn’t been able to come after him for some reason, waiting here would have made sense. Kal wouldn’t have known that Roy hadn’t used this place in nearly two years, and only a combination of bad luck and being fucking exhausted had brought him here tonight.

He swallows hard against the emotions roiling inside him. This isn’t like finding the boy he’d been cloned from. Roy wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if he’d given up on tracking down Roy - the original one - until he’d either gone over every single square inch of the planet or died trying. With this, there’s nothing he can do. No amount of second-guessing his actions, no amount of bitter regret at lost chances, will bring Kal back to him.

Not that it’d be to _him_ because he’d fucked _that_ up too, in a magnificent fashion.

No, he’d been sixteen and a half to Kaldur’s fifteen and painfully oblivious and had panicked because he’d liked girls but maybe liked Kaldur too? And then had promptly avoided Kaldur to give himself time to think, not that he’d been _thinking_ , not really, not about anyone besides himself and his own confused feelings. And to top it all off, he’d reappeared months later, believing that it’d be easy to return to how things had been. That Kal might give him another short, soft, hesitant kiss and Roy could kiss him back this time instead of running.

Which was absolutely fucking _ridiculous_ in hindsight. Roy still can’t figure out what Kaldur ever saw in him.

It had taken over a year to mend the damage he’d single-handedly done to their friendship, and even then it had never been quite the same. There was always a distance that Kaldur kept him at, as if guarding himself against being hurt again, and even as much as that had frustrated Roy, he couldn’t blame Kal. It hadn’t been until Rhelasia and Kaldur actually responding to his call for assistance that Roy had known for certain their friendship was back on solid ground again.

Not that he’d ever thought to apologize for it at any point, which probably hadn’t helped. And he’d only racked up more and more he needed to and ought to have apologized for already. Like actually believing Kaldur had genuinely defected to the Light. Which only fed into not exactly _avoiding_ Kaldur again but definitely not seeking him out.

The universe taunting him like this with traces of Kaldur’s presence is just cruel. He’s already tortured himself with all the things he could have done different over these past months; he doesn’t need yet another reminder.

\---

“You usually aren’t the drinking sort.”

Dinah glances up from the counter of the Watchtower’s well-stocked kitchen. Shayera stood on the opposite side of the bar from her, arms crossed. “Usually don’t lose two people you’ve trained so close together, either.” She retorts more brusquely than she usually would. There’s still amber liquid in her glass; she drains it, the alcohol burning as it goes down. She sets it down to find Shayera sitting across from her with a glass of her own.

“Didn’t realize it had been a year already.” The woman explains as she pours her glass full. Dinah watches as Shayera raises the glass, murmurs “To Wally and Kaldur’ahm”, drains it completely and pours herself another within seconds.

“... I thought you didn’t drink at all.”

“Only because I might as well drink water, for all the effect Earth alcohols have on me.”

“Ah.” Dinah’s not jealous. Okay, maybe she’s a little jealous.

“And because, with this rare exception, you have normally enough presence of mind to not take on two entire bottles by yourself.”

Dinah’s eyebrows raise. “Are you _scolding_ me?”

“Well, I _am_ the maiden aunt. It’s part of my job, right?”

The deadpan delivery startles a laugh of Dinah. It takes her several minutes to regain a sense of calm. “Holy shit. I’d forgotten about that.”

“Me too. I thought he was going to expire on the spot.” Shayera shakes her head.

“You never explained why you wanted to be a _maiden_ aunt. You’re married.”

Shayera just grins at her. “So? Doesn’t mean I can’t also be a maiden. Besides, I’ve never been the mom sort. Being an aunt fits much better.”

Dinah jumps as another chair skids beside her. “What’re we talking about?” Diana asks, joining the two.

“Kaldur calling us mom.” Shayera says. She raises the bottle towards Diana, eyebrow cocked. When Diana nods, the winged woman reaches over with a long arm to snag a third glass. “Remember that day where we all gathered on the beach?”

Diana chuckles. “How could I forget? It was rather flattering.” She raises her glass and clinks it against Dinah’s and Shayera’s. Making a face after draining half of it, Diana sets it down and spins it in her fingers slowly. “What had I asked him? ‘How are things going’, that was it.”

“And he said ‘fine, moms’ back.” Shayera grins like she’s the one who thought of it.

“He looked so mortified. Like he thought we were going to be mad at him.” Diana snorts at the ridiculousness of the idea.

“I think Paula was about to adopt him right then and there, she was so amused.”

“Are we sure she _didn’t?_ ” The three share a laugh.

Dinah sobers after a moment though. “We didn’t do very well by him, though.” That brings the other two back down too.

“No, we didn’t.” Diana admits. “Not that he easily accepted assistance in the first place, for all that he’d listen to advice.”

“He’d just promptly ignore it if it didn’t suit his needs. Very politely, of course.”

“Of course.” Shayera nods in agreement. “Is the team doing all right?”

“That’s... hard to say. Most of them are managing all right, more or less. I’m a little concerned about Artemis, but I can’t _force_ her to talk to me.” Dinah sighs.

“Didn’t she go back to school?” Shayera nods at Diana’s question. “And is doing well with her studies?”

“From what I’ve gathered, yes. But I try not to involve myself on that level _too_ much. Had my hands full enough badgering Roy about his schoolwork, let alone anyone else. But last I heard, she should be graduating in the next year or two. Don’t quote me on that though.”

“Yes, well.” Diana’s quiet for a moment. “Sometimes all you can do is give them space. Let them come to you when they’re ready.”

“Yes, but it’s hard to wait for them to be ready.” Dinah refills her glass once again, ignoring Shayera’s pointedly raised eyebrow. She doesn’t drink it immediately, however, instead drumming her fingers on the table. As much as she wants to air her thoughts, sitting through yet another rehashing of who was at fault for what and by how much doesn’t appeal.

“What is it, Dinah?”

“Do you think that maybe we had a part in what happened?”

“What do you mean?”

She picks her words slowly and with care. “I don’t mean that we were directly at fault. But it still bothers me, what Mera said. That we - the League - failed Kaldur too, not just her and Orin.”

From the quiet of the other two, they too don’t want to have yet another argument of going round and round and getting nowhere.

Shayera’s the first to break the silence. “You blame yourself still.” Dinah shrugs. Of course she would cut straight to the center of Dinah’s doubts. “You _just_ got done saying you can’t force someone to talk to you if they don’t want to.”

“I know. I _know_ that. But I can’t help but think of what if. What if I’d done things differently? What if I hadn’t simply accepted that he had chosen to fight for Black Manta? What if I _had_ questioned it, what if I had tried harder to get him to open up, what if I -”

Diana lays a hand on top of hers, interrupting her. “You can second-guess yourself all day long. Hera knows that I do. I could have used the lasso of truth to have question him, and yet I did not. Shayera is skilled in subterfuge and misdirection, and she too believed it.”

“Diana speaks true. And maybe the League truly had created an environment that made it hard for him to ask us for help.” Dinah stares at Shayera - she can distinctly remember the woman once hotly arguing that the League held no personal responsibility the first time these ideas had been brought up. “Isn’t that why we’ve been doing more and more collaborative group missions? So that everyone - protege or the Team or League - has a broader network of heroes they’ve actually met? So that even if they can’t talk to their mentor for whatever reason, they’ve probably met someone they can talk to? _You_ spearheaded that, remember?”

Diana squeezes her hand gently before letting go. “We can’t change what happened. But we can do our best to not repeat our mistakes in the future.”

“I suppose.” It sounds right but also too easy an out. “I just wish it hadn’t come at such a cost.”

\---

Zatanna took a moment to compose herself before stepping back into the living room. Voices greet her as she does. “So did you find anything?” Impulse asks, hope in his eyes, before she’s even clear of the curtain that serves as a door to her ‘divination room’.

She catches Artemis’s eyes before she answers. The archer smiles tightly and looks away. “No, I’m sorry.”

“Not even a trace?” Impulse presses. Of all of them, he’s the one who’s pushed hardest to continue searching for Wally. By now, the rest have let it rest, but not him. Zatanna’s almost certain it’s because of guilt, but she wishes he wouldn’t drag her into dealing with it. “You’re certain? Like, _beyond_ certain?”

“Yes.” The response comes out harsher than she meant, and she almost apologizes but stops herself. She had done these same fruitless searches a year ago, with nothing but headaches and exhaustion to show for it. There was no point to doing them again - all it would do was reopen old wounds - and yet Impulse had insisted. And insisted. And _insisted_. And now had dragged Artemis into it.

“But there ought to be _something_. Even if it’s just, I don’t know, an after image or -”

“If Zatanna says there’s nothing, then there’s _nothing_ , Bartholomew.” The boy winces at Artemis’s use of his full first name.

Zatanna nods. “I’m sorry, Impulse. I’d be overjoyed to find _anything_ that hinted of him. But if there is, it’s not anything that I recognize as being even vaguely Wally-ish. As it is, there’s not even anything that even hints at being abnormal for that area.”

“Maybe if you widened the search -”

“Drop it.” Artemis’s tone is flat, and Zatanna suppresses the urge to shiver at the sudden drop in temperature.

“... Fine.” Impulse scowls at Artemis, gives Zatanna a part-apology, part-farewell shoulder shrug, and then there’s only a faint breeze to show that he was even there.

Artemis exhales heavily, running a hand through her hair. “Sorry about him.”

“Don’t be.” Zatanna crosses the small living room to her even smaller kitchen. “Do you want some tea?” Getting an affirmative, Zatanna busies herself in making some. Only once she’s done does Artemis break the silence they’ve fallen into.

“Do you really need a whole separate room to do your magic?”

Zatanna chuckles. “No, but the whole special room with the curtains and crystals and silks and everything is part of what people expect. Makes it more mysterious and all that.” Her smile fades a little as she adds, “And I wasn’t sure I could keep it together, given who I was trying to find. Wanted some privacy if I broke down.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Zatanna shrugs. “I know it must’ve been harder for you, to have to deal with Impulse wheedling you into this.”

Artemis doesn’t look up from her tea, turning the cup in her fingers.

“Hey, you doing okay?”

“Hm?” She looks up when Zatanna’s fingers brush lightly against her elbow. “Oh. I’m all right, more or less. I think I was kind of secretly hoping there would be some trace, this time around. I know it was silly to hope, especially after so long.”

“Not silly.” Zatanna wraps an arm around Artemis, briefly squeezing her shoulders. “Just human.”

“I keep thinking that I’m done grieving for him, you know? And then I fucking broke down and couldn’t even bring myself to visit his _grave_ , Zee. And now I feel terrible that I’m upset about feeling terrible.”

She squeezes Artemis’s shoulders again, longer this time. Artemis drops her head onto Zatanna’s shoulder. “Seems fairly par for the course in my experience.” Zatanna says softly. “Everyone grieves differently and all that, but I know I’ll be fine for what seems like forever and then something normally innocuous will remind me of my dad, and well, cue the waterworks and all that jazz.”

“I was doing fine.” Artemis mutters into her shoulder. “Even with... with visiting Kal’s memorial. Like. I miss him terribly - I don’t think I ever told him how much I valued his friendship. But I was dealing with him being gone, with losing Wally and Kal and everything, I really was, until Impulse refused to let _this_ drop.”

Zatanna makes what she hopes is a soothing sound, releasing Artemis’s shoulder to stroke her hair.

“I’m just tired of people leaving me behind all the time.”

Zatanna doesn’t know what to say to that. “I don’t think he meant to.” She says at last.

“I know.” Artemis sighs and straightens, pulling out of Zatanna’s hold. “I know he didn’t mean to, and I know it’s not fair to him.”

“Have you been, well, talking to anyone about how you’re feeling?”

“What, about being a selfish piece of work who can’t even let her boyfriend’s noble sacrifice be just that?” Artemis snorts and takes a gulp of tea. “No.”

“... Not exactly,” Zatanna drawls after a moment. “I meant, are you talking to a grief counselor, or doing any sort of general therapy?”

“Because there are _so_ many therapists available for vigilante heroes. What am I supposed to say, Zee? ‘Hi, I moonlight as Tigress, by the way my sister and dad are villains and my mom’s a retired one, and my superhero boyfriend sacrificed himself to save the world a year ago, and _then_ , for icing on the cake, two months later our team leader died too, and I would like to feel less sad?’”

“Ouch, sorry for asking.” Zatanna raises her hands in surrender, not at all surprised by the bite in Artemis’s voice. She’s always been prickly even at the best of times, and Zatanna would have been a fool to expect her to react kindly to having old wounds poked at. Especially when others had already been poking at them.

Artemis grimaces. “I just - Black Canary’s offered a few times, but... I don’t know. It’s just weird. Talking to her about Wally and everything.”

“Mm. Yeah, that’s kind of too much like talking to your mom. I mean, not exactly, but -”

“Yeah. And she’s also kind of our boss in a way. Makes it extra weird.”

“No kidding.” Zatanna finishes her tea then stretches. “Okay, so I don’t know about you, but I could use some plain old Artemis time, you and me hanging out. What do you say to getting pizza and beer and getting your ass kicked at video games?”

Artemis snorts, a small smile forming. “It’s going to be _your_ ass getting kicked Zee, just you wait.”

\---

He’s highly aware of the irony of the situation. He’d laugh, if not for how he’d ended up here. He slowly dries himself off as he watches the older man inspect the haul he’s dredged up. Bits of it glisten; more of it will once the water damage has been fixed. The man pokes at the pile, picking up some of it and letting it run through his fingers. Slowly it gets sorted into two smaller piles, presumably ‘treasure’ and ‘junk’. Finally, the man grunts and straightens up, apparently finished with his inspection.

“Good enough,” the man allows. “You seem to know what you’re doing, I’ll give you that much. Know your way about a boat?”

It takes a moment parse the question rightly. “Not well, no.” He answers after a moment. There’d never been a need to learn before. Not that he’d sought out opportunities to learn; it had seemed rather unnecessary at the time.

“Willing to learn?”

He nods an assent.

“Well then. I’ll give you a week’s try, see how you fair. Do well enough, you can stay. Don’t like you, well, you’ll get paid for your time and I’ll see land back under your feet. Deal?”

Once, the man’s unchanging, stern expression might have bothered him. But this is no mission where a single misstep might lead to his death. And he’s had to deal with too many people who were far better at hiding their thoughts to feel even a little nervous now.

“Deal.”

The man’s expression finally changes, a grin spreading across his face. “What did you say your name was again?”

He resists the urge to point out that the man hadn’t even asked for it in the first place. Long practice of holding his tongue - aside from the rare slip - keeps the remark in check. It wasn’t as if he had volunteered his name either.

“Kal. Kal Durham.” It flows out naturally, without any hint of the practice he’s done to avoid tripping over the sounds. It still sounds weird in his ears to use his father’s name as his own.

“Well, Kal, let’s go eat and talk money.”

He lets out a breath he hadn’t realize he was holding. Now, if he can just avoid repeating history, maybe he can survive this too.


End file.
